— INDEX —
3.01.01 - Two Bold Men and a Boulder
a county largely without locally available igneous or sedimentary building stones, such as granites, marbles, limestones and sandstones. To the west of the county there is some iron bearing sandstone but its colour is better than its quality. Most stone buildings in Norfolk are flint-work edged, hedged and ledged with imported stone ashlaring or bricks burnt from local clay. Occasionally, substantial boulders can be found, littered randomly across the county mostly by invading ice-sheets and their melt-waters. According to the Vicar's antiquarian cousin, who likes to keep up with such innovational trends as geology, they're called erratics, which places them squarely in the same social order as Stan and Jarge:
“Wull,” say Middl'n Johno with Young Johno and Little Johno backing him up like a line of Russian dolls, “Owd Johno say thettle hetta gOo.”
“Dunt see how thet kin gOo,” say Jarge, “Stan say thas th'Parrush mark-stun.”
“Zackly,” say Stan wiv'wun a hiz grins, “Muve thet an'nun'a'us will know ware we live.”
“Dunt tork s'much squit,” say Johno, “Thet wunt'fek'th'Mill'Ouse, now wull'ut? Nor'nenny a'th'uthers.”
“Come a dark nite,” say Stan, “An'thar's yew orn ya way hum frum th'pub. Yew kick up agin'ut, an'reckon owt ware ter gOo nixt, an'ware ar'yer? Streart over th'weir, thas ware!”
“Stuff!” say Johno, “An'nonsense, an'orl! Oi hint thet stewpid.”
“Thas nut wot Oi hard,” mutter Jarge, wi'a bittava corf.
“Wass'at?” say Johno, “Wut didger hare?”
“Whoa Hey,” say Jarge, “Jus'kleer'n m'throstle.”
“Wull dunt,” say Johno, “Or Oi'll put a knot in'ut.”
“NOo need ter git exercised,” say Stan, “Thas ony an owd stun.”
“Then less gitt'ut muved,” say Johno, “Oi'll gitcha a cuppla spades.”
“Orrite,” say Stan, “But thattle need a'Hact'a'Parlymunt fust.”
— INDEX —
3.01.02 - Like an old Tooth
Everyone in the village except the Bailiff, Vicar and Sir Marcus knows that when the cholera infected culvert was washed clean away, it was Stan what done it. Sir Marcus still thinks the problem arose from some incompetence of the Miller, a certain Jonathan Pratt, or his family (many of whom seem to be named John, Jonathan or more popularly Johno), but as the mill is outside his immediate jurisdiction, he has not, as yet, done anything about it.
Jurisdiction, in this case, depends on the parish boundary, which follows the middle of the river as far as the mill, then turns east along an ancient hedge-line. The change in direction is marked by a large boulder of fine grained metamorphic sandstone of a light brown colour, well greened with moss and algae. On a map, extending the line of the ancient hedgerow through the stone meets the centreline of the river just south of the mill dam; thus placing the mill, mill-house and all the outbuildings in the adjoining parish. Only the Mill Cottages, now in the process of being rebuilt are in the parish of Little Mardlingham.
For as long as the Pratt family can remember, and they've been millers there for several generations, the stone has been built into the corner of the brick parapet where it ramps up over the culvert. However, Middl'n Johno is not one to miss an opportunity, so in repairing the culvert, he has arranged for the ramp to be widened and the corner eased. This has left the mark-stone stuck out in the new roadway, like the last tooth in Granny Pratt's gums.
— INDEX —
3.01.03 - Space and Time
Generally speaking, our villagers are law abiding citizens, although it has to be said, they do have a tendency to make up their own laws to suit the occasion. It is also generally known, at least in Little Mardlingham, that residents of adjoining parishes, particularly that of Great Mardlingham, wouldn't know the rule of law from a three legged stool.
Furthermore, it is about to become generally known that, what would in more modern literature be called a space-time discontinuity, has called into question the entire existence of the Mardlinghams within the Universe as they know it. A spacial discontinuity caused by the action of certain members of a milling family, and a temporal one because nobody knows quite when they did it, nor when their task will be completed:
“Moind ware yer'ra gawn Boy,” say Stan, as Jimma walks inta th'Tap-Room at th'Crorst Arms wi'hiz arms owt loike a sleep-warker an' misses gitt'n a buss a'th'cheek frum Bea by abow'tew feet.
“Wuss rong wi'him?” say Bea, “NoObudda kin lose th'way thet bad jus'crorss'n th'bar.”
“Hinchew hard?” say Stan, “Them Johnos a'th'Mill grubb'd up thet ol'stun.”
“Oi thort yew reckoned thet need'd a'Hact'a'Parlymunt,” say Jarge.
“Oi wuz ony say'n thet tew confuse'em,” say Stan, “Thet mite hor thet mite nut. As yit, Oi hint hed toime ter consult th'records.”
“Kintcha arsk Wicar?” say Bea, “He reckon he's gottem orf pat.”
“Arsk'n th'Wicar an' unnerstand'n th'harnsa,” say Stan, “Are tew diff'n't things.”
“SOo,” say Jimma, “Whut ar'yer gawn t'dew abowt'ut?”
“Nut nuth'n, nohow,” say Stan, “Nut til they putt'ut back in th'grownd.”
“SOo how wull thet signify?” say Bea, “Thas jus'an owd stun.”
“Thettle fix th'boundary, sOo we'll orl know ware we are,” say Stan, “Mebby then Jimma'll stop act'n th'fule an'butt'n inta things.”
— INDEX —
3.01.04 - Of Mice and Men
Let us return to the moment just after the Mark-Stone was grubbed from its historic socket. A ground breaking event in every way. Little Millicent Pratt, maidservant in her own home - The Pratts having a family policy of breeding rather than employing servants - is frozen to the floor she has been sweeping. In front of her, not frozen, but watching malevolently, is a very large black spider, the size of her hand. In the centre of a gantry of legs its fat body is the focus of both Millicent's gaze and that of the mouse approaching from its rear. For Millie, the body is hairy and horrible, for the mouse a lipsmakingly juicy breakfast.
Outside the Mill-house, the Miller and those of his male offspring currently employed at the mill, namely all those answering to the name of Johno, are contemplating their recent deed:
“Wutchew wunt dun wi'this?” say Johno, as he an'Young Johno chuck th'Boundary Stone in th'tumbly-cart.
“Owtta sight, owtta moind,” say Owd-Johno, “Dump'ut ware they unt see'ut.”
“Rite,” say Johno, “Young-Johno, yew and Johny kin dew thet, then fergit yer dunn'ut.”
“Ware we gunter gOo wi'ut?” say Young-Johno, “Drop'ut in th'mill-race?”
“Yew reckon thas gonna wash away loike a bran-fed turd?” say Johno, think'n a'th'long drop neath'th'seat a'th'mill privy in th'corner a'th'wheelhouse.
“Wull NOoo,” say Young-Johno, “But thas pretty deep ware thet scour.”
It is at that moment that the mouse reaches the spider and with a delicate bite grabs its breakfast. As the spider legs fall to the floor in a neat circle, Millie screams and the mouse disappears in a flick of tail.
“Didger hare summat? say Young-Johno, “Frum th'owse?”
“Ony Millie,” say Johnny, “Spider, Oi'spek.”
“Or a mowse?” say Young-Johno, “Bit lowd fer jus'a'spidy.”
— • —
Meanwhile, at the Vicarage, where Miss Rosamunda has recently returned from her first London Season, where she had been not exactly a débutante, but well received in certain most tasteful circles:
“Stanley, consider this,” says the Vicar, “The parish ends at the mark-stone, wherever that may be.”
“Blust... Er! My'pologies Wicar,” say Stan, “But hint thet a hinconwenience a'th'fust order?”
“Inconvenient for which parties?” says the Vicar, “I, for one, don't mind adding to my parish. With Empire building such a part of our world today, perhaps I should wait for a dark night and employ our friend George to move a few of the other boundary marks.”
“A jolly thought, Brother,” says his sister Rosamunda, now officially espoused to Sir Marcus and in a permanent blush of excitement about their nuptials planned for Spring's first bursting buds.
“He'll hev a fare tarsk shift'n Thet Ol'Ook ahint Cat's Farm,” say Stan, “Nut ter menshun th'river.”
“Ah, I forgot,” says the Vicar, “Only you can move the river.”
“Up an'down,” say Stan, “Nut sideways - enaway, Oi thort yew dint know abowt thet.”
— • —
Meanwhile, up at The Big House, the reigns of the estate are being handed back to the Master:
“Bailiff,” says Sir Marcus, “The time has come to appoint a Surveyor to the Parish. I suggest Miss Rosamunda's cousin, what's his name?”
“Lieutenant G. Alexander,” says the Bailiff in his ‘talking to gentry’ voice, “Of th'Militia. Gee fer Gregory, I b'leve.”
“Capital,” says Sir Marcus, “I'll send his captain a telegram.”
— INDEX —
3.01.05 - Missing Marker
There is a symbolism about boundaries that transcends their physical properties. They define the observer's place in the universe on a multitude of levels. Disturb a person's boundaries and you disturb their equilibrium. But beware, this may effect them in any number of different ways, some sublime and others trivial:
“Gitcher in th'bone,” say Cook, “Thet miss'n stun.”
“Howdger meen?” say Tilly, “Rhumy-screwmatickly?”
“NOo,” say Cook, “Sorta holla, empta nagg'n way a'gitt'n yer.”
“Hevva slice a'moi frute-loaf,” say Tottie, “Cure enath'n, a gobful a'frute-loaf.”
“Bit hoptamiseric wi'yer frute-loaf, Hintcher?” say Tilly, “Wut abowt a bruk leg?”
“Hint tried'ut on thet yit,” say Tottie, heft'n a roll'n pin, “Har yew a wolunteer?”
“Quit yer squabbl'n, yew tew,” say Cook, “Oi reckon them Johnos burried'ut.”
“Nah,” say Tilly, “Oi'da chuck'ut in th'millpool.”
“Fust plearce Oi'd gOo a'look'n,” say Tottie, “Thet unt be thar.”
“Wicar say thet dun't matter,” say Tilly, “Th'willage still end a'th'searme place, ware eva th'stun is now.”
“Stan say he dunt see'ut thet way,” say Cook, “Cord'n t'rim th'stun is th'boundry, ware'revva thet set.”
“Hew git th'laars'wud?” say Tottie, “Wicar or Stan?”
“Stan iz th'Parrush Clerk,” say Cook, “But Oi reckon thet'le be Sir Marcus.”
— INDEX —
3.01.06 - A Miss is as good as a Smile
Lieutenant Greg Alexander, whilst carrying a name of historical importance in both the antiquarian past and as seen from the nineteenth century, the not so distant future, was not really a military man. His cousin Rosamunda, knowing this, had subtly steered her betrothed, Sir Marcus Haugh-Wells, magistrate and master of Mardlingham Hall, into appointing the said Gregory as Surveyor to both the Mardlingham Estate and the village itself. Technically speaking this should have been a decision of the Parish Officer, in this case our friend Stan, but who in the village would gainsay their lord and master?
Having perused such existing perfunctory plans, musty maps and decaying documents as might inform him of the case, Greg had set out at dawn to ‘Beat the Bounds’ starting with the current point of controversy, the missing mark-stone by the watermill. A boundary marker, now no more than a slight dip in the newly Macadamised surface of Mill Lane where it ramped up to bridge the culvert and cross the mill-dam.
From a military point of view, the best thing about Ltn.G.Alexander is his horse, a fine thoroughbred mare whose chestnut colouring compliments perfectly the autumn tints of the ancient tree-strewn hedgerow that is next on his list of markers. It is against this background that he is first espied by Ginny from Dawson's Farm, out with her dog Raggs for their early-morning exercise.
Raggs, unlike the Lieutenant's mount, is far from thoroughbred. To be a Lurcher, as he is, his ancestry must include a fair proportion of greyhound, but the other elements are often vague. In his case, his Irish setter ma seems to have contributed both long coat and red colouring, with speed and a predilection for chasing hare and cony coming from his pa. He has just attempted to cock-a-leg on a non-existent marker, and is now gazing sheepishly at the puddle of his mistake. Not so much like a dog, as an old gentleman who has just mislaid a newspaper he's absolutely sure he had a moment ago.
It is Ginny's gale of laughter, that calls Greg's attention back to the missing stone, and being a sharp minded sort of fellow, understands exactly, the dog's predicament:
“He's missing an old friend, I take it?” says Greg, addressing Ginny. A young woman he has noticed before, and whose personality impresses him rather more than the vapid females, he normally finds himself escorting, mostly at their mothers' insistence.
“Nut miss'n,” say Ginny, “Kidnap't more like.”
“We do talk of a stone,” says Greg, “A boundary marker?”
“We sartainly dew,” say Ginny, “Duggup an'dun away with.”
“Leaving nary a trace but a dog's disaster,” chuckles Greg.
“Raggs,” says Ginny, “Th'dawgs nearm is Raggs.”
“Ah, if I'd known that I'd've said ‘Wretchedly removed to Raggs regret!’”
“An' yer hofficer's sword,” say Ginny wi'a grin, “Meake yew tew too sharp fer yer own gud.”
“Splendid,” says Greg, dismounting and using the point of the said sword to investigate Ragg's puddle, “It was just here, you reckon?”
“Thar,” say Ginny, “A bit orn th'huh, an'sway'd back agin th'wall.”
“There was also a wall here?” says Greg, “Ah yes, I remember now from the cholera epidemic, and they seem to have rebuilt the cottages.”
“Sir Marcus....” say Ginny.
“Yes,” says Greg, “Sir Marcus! Mover and shaker, what would we all do without Sir Marcus.”
“Wull he dint move th'stun,” say Ginny, “That wuz th'Johnos.”
“John Pratt and Company, the Millers?” says Greg, “You make them sound like a bunch of outlaws.”
“Dew yew wont th'stun?” say Ginny, “They wunt'ha dragg'd'ut far.”
“Not holding it for ransom, then?” grins Greg, “After his recent performance, you're not suggesting Raggs can find it?”
“If he put hiz second moind tew'ut,” say Ginny.
“He has two minds?” says Greg, “Splendid, I'm often in two minds myself.”
— INDEX —
3.01.07 - Scent of Success
Most dogs have an inbuilt ability to track things, do they not? - Raggs, it seems is often in two minds when it come to such tasks. The knack is getting him in the right one:
“Look AT ME,” say Ginny, grabbing Raggs by the chin and staring him full in the face. Raggs closes his eyes and daintily licks the tip of his own nose.
“Pray, what does he mean by that?” says Greg, bowing over the dog to better examine its behaviour.
“Hew know?” say Ginny, “He's jus'a dawrg.”
“Is now the moment to order him to find the stone?” asks Greg.
“Dunno 'bowt order'n,” say Ginny, “He hetta think he hev a mind ter dew'ut.”
“Ah!” says Greg, “His other mind.”
“Seek'ut owt, Boy. SEEK!” say Ginny, dipping Raggs' tail in his accidental puddle and waving it under his nose.
Raggs immediately dives for his tail, which miraculously escapes him, but starts him in circular motion. At first he tightens the circle until he trips over his own feet and rolls a yard or two in the direction of Mill Lane Cottages. On rising, he shakes himself, loosing a cloud of dust. Then nose to the ground he wuffles around searching for a scent. The first track he finds takes him back to the puddle, at which point he sits down and looks back expectantly. Ginny wags her head. The dog tries again, finds the same trail and returns to the puddle:
“Whuff!” says Raggs, sitting down, but this time with less confidence.
“Nut thet!” say Ginny, waving her arms in a wide circle, “Seek'ut owt, Boy. SEEK!”
“Hurff,” say a doubtful Raggs, widening his circle; finding the same trail and returning to the puddle.”
“NOo!” say Ginny, leaping about and waving her arms with great enthusiasm, “Seek'ut owt, Boy. SEEK!”
“Huff, huffle, huff,” say Raggs, inspired by her action and quartering the entire area of the road junction; picking up numerous trails following them a short way, snorting in disgust and trying another one.
“Well that seems to cover the ground,” says Greg.
“Wearte a bit,” say Ginny, “He hint got hiz second mind yit.”
“Now I have your meaning,” says Greg, “His first mind is mere instinct, and betimes that serves, but now he must stop and think.”
“Come yew orn, Boy,” say Ginny tew har dawrg, “Yew kin dew'ut.”
“Gruff,” say Raggs, walking to the puddle and picking up the original trail.
“Thas th'way,” say Ginny, “GOo orn, Boy. Seek'ut owt, Boy. SEEK!”
“Splendid,” says Greg, as Raggs zigzags away, heading for the mill dam at ever increasing speed.
“Whoah Boy,” say Ginny, as Raggs lopes off along the dam.
“Steady Boy,” says Greg to his chestnut mare as he swings up into the saddle, “Quickly, young lady, let me give you a hand to mount, and we shall give chase.”
— • —
“Shades a'Hades?” say Johno, stepping out from the mill right in the path of the dog.
“Wut ar'yew dew'n down thar?” say Young Johno, a few paces in the wake of his elder, and arriving just in time to pick him up from the dust.
“Dammit!” say Johno, seeing the military form of Lieutenant Greg approaching at speed, “We're bee'n dragooned.”
“Where's the dog?” yells Greg.
“Bugga th'dawrg!” hollers Johno.
“Wut dawrg?” say Young Johno, as Raggs returns and jumps on him, “Oh! Oi spuz yew meen thus'un?”
“Oi tol'yew afore,” say Ginny, slipping down from the horse, “Hiz nearme's Raggs, an'he'll ony let gOo if yew play ded!”
“Oi am ded,” say Young Johno, who was no stranger to Raggs, having long taken a fancy to his mistress.
“Yew wunt larf,” say Ginny, “Wen yew know wut sorta stink he's fowd orn yer.”
“Years of vintage dog piddle!” roars Greg, almost falling out of the saddle at the thought of it, “I'd say this varlet has handled the stone.”
“Ware'ja'putt'ut?” say Ginny.
“Howd yar tongue,” say Johno, glaring at Young Johno.
“Oi hint tell'n,” say Young Johno, his eyes flicking guiltily at the nearby parapet.
“The millrace,” says Greg, “Of course. Splendid!”
“Thar's nOo easa way a'razing'ut,” say Johno, in his most wolfish voice.
“I think it's just fine where it is,” says Greg, “Come Ginny, let us remove ourselves.”
— INDEX —
3.01.08 - Millinery Manoeuvre
Readers will remember, from several chapters ago, that Stan's action in flushing out the cholera ridden culvert converted Sir Marcus's ornamental lake into a stinking mud-flat, and that his blame for this desecration of the favoured landscape fell squarely upon the millers' shoulders. A blame any member of the Haugh-Wells family would be quick to assign to the Pratt Family, guilty or not, on account of their long-standing feud. Stan, like both Greg and Raggs had for some time been in two minds. Should he be a dutiful Parish Clerk, take himself before the Lord of the Manor and own up to his misdemeanour, or should he sit back with the rest of the village and watch the feud run its erratic course:
“Thas a rum'un!” say Jarge, tramping into the Crossed Arms for his evening drink, ”Oi nivver wud a'thort'ut.”
“Wussat?” say Bea, “Th'Johnos looz'n th'mill?”
“Wull, thet hint suff'n yew'd spect,” say Jarge, “Nut inna munth a'Sund'ies.”
“Oi reckon,” say Stan, “Thet now thet rilly wull nede a hact'a'Parlymunt.”
“Wut hev Wicar t'say?” say Bea, “Gud line fer a sermon, Oid'a thort.”
“Wenjunse iz Moine, Oi wull repay, say th'Lord?” say Jarge, wi'a grin.
“NOo,” say Bea, “How ar'th'moighty fallen.”
“Set me rite if Oi gott'ut rong,” say Jimma, “But now thet th'owd stun iz sett'n th'far side a'th'mill, thet put th'mill in th'Mardl'um Estate?”
“An'rite in Sir Marcus' britches pocket,” say Bea, “An'th'Johnos ar'a'runn'n roun'loike hedless chick'ns.”
— • —
Meanwhile, in the Vicarage, Rosamunda and her brother are enjoying a brace of small brandies in very large glasses:
“Poor Marcus has frothed himself into a glorious tizzy,” says she, “Regarding cousin Greg's news about the Mark-Stone.”
“As Miss Roberts has so divulged,” smiles the Vicar, “She is all for loading her revolver and taking possession.”
“And by what occasion or paltry excuse for a visit, did that hussy have to divulge such unto you, dear brother?”
“Surely, she needs no excuse to visit her spiritual adviser,” says the Vicar.
“The only spiritual advice she needs is to disencumber herself from a certain liking for that filthy sour-mash distillation she receives from the colonies.”
“Goodness my dear,” laughs the Vicar, “I thought she was supposed to be your true companion and chaperone?”
“Then I shall put her services to proper use and move my portmanteaux up to the Hall, forthwith. I can exchange accommodation with our cousin Greg.”
“I see,” grins her brother, “You not only do not trust her with Sir Marcus, but you suspect she has unholy designs on handsome young Lieutenant Alexander?”
“I do not dispute your conclusion, dear brother. In faith, I would add another by suggesting that an ecclesiastical future in your own handsome company is not beyond her ambitions.”
“I say, d'you think so?” says the Vicar, with an enigmatic smile.
“I was right,” growls Rosamunda, “The hussy! I shall storm her barracks first thing in the morning. Hopefully outflanking her as she sallies forth to lay siege to the Mill.”
“And what of Cousin Greg?” asks the Vicar, “Has he no say in this exchange of domicile?”
“I've no doubt dear Greg will do as I ask,” says Rosamunda, “And when it comes to the temptations of Miss Roberts, perhaps together you will find the strength to resist.”
“And what hat shall you wear for this adventure?” says her brother, tongue firmly in cheek.
“The broad brim with English roses of course,” says Rosamunda, missing the sarcasm in her excitement.
“Then, my dear,” says her brother with a smile, “It will be a truly Millinery Manoeuvre.”
— INDEX —
3.01.09 - Confusion or Conclusion?
It is not fair to lay the entire blame for recent events at the door of Pratt and Sons, Millers, but it must be said that their general attitude has been a strong contributory factor: A less truculent approach to dealing with Sir Marcus and his concerns over water-levels and fishing rights would have avoided the feud; A small amount of time spent maintaining the culvert would have prevented the build-up that trapped the foetid cholera infected water and spread the disease wider than would otherwise have been the case; And patience and forethought in the matter of moving the Mark-Stone would have prevented the debacle they are now staring in the face. Furthermore, a smidgen of arboriculture or tree-surgery would have left the Root'n-Toot'n Miss Roberts with nowhere to hide.
The ownership of a Colt 44, revolving six-shooter, has a certain influence on a person, be they the Sheriff of New Mardlingham, Idaho Territories or a chaperone in The Big House, Little Mardlingham, County of Norfolk. For Miss Roberts, that chaperone, its effect is to draw her from her bed at dawn, and while the rest of the household takes a leisurely breakfast, ensconce herself in the fork of a large overgrown willow growing out of the riverbank between the Mill-house and the outlet end of the culvert. There she has a fine view of all approaches as well as the mill, mill-house and the entire length of the mill-dam.
Hardly has she settled in, when there is a bustling around the mill. A tumbrel pulled by a small horse is positioned under the lucam and tackle lowered. An ‘A’ frame is then positioned by the parapet over the near edge of the mill-race. To Miss Roberts guilty delight, Young Johno then strips to the buff and drops into the water below. After a few seconds he surfaces and waves to Johno, who lowers the end of the tackle. To Miss Robert's further and even more guilty delight, Young Johno then displays his pale buttocks to the sky and taking the rope with him ducks under the water. Two gasps of air and two more dives sees him heading for the shore on the far bank from the willow. The rope tackle is now taught, and as Young Johno returns to the top of the mill-dam and his heap of clothes, Miss Roberts stifles a giggle and sights her 44 on a rather less taught set of tackle.
— • —
At the Vicarage, Rosamunda, as good as her word, is expending considerable energy in organising the Strange Girl from the kitchens, the gardener and the housemaid. They are loading their mistress's portmanteaux and other impedimenta into the governess cart, now complete with its own pony. Rosamunda's pretty filly having returned to its role as her personal transport. In terms of energy expended, Rosamunda's is about twice that she would have expended doing the entire task for herself, but being the nineteenth century there is an entirely different attitude to the classes of labour involved.
Meanwhile, in Sir Marcus's study, Greg and Stan having failed in their efforts to council a course of negotiation and compromise, are reluctantly preparing to execute the required Notices for the dispossession of the Johnos. An action Sir Marcus sees as essential to his gleeful humiliation of the millers.
— • —
Half an hour later, Rosamunda is approaching Mardlingham Hall just as Sir Marcus and his party come in sight of the Mill. In her ariel bower, Miss Roberts is just completing a late breakfast consisting of a cold leg of chicken and an apple. The Johnos appear to be clearing their goods from the Mill and piling them in the lane.
In Miss Roberts field of view, there is a sizeable heap of grain-sacks at the side of Mill Lane, some bags of bran outside the Mill-house gate and a heap of bagged flour in the middle of the junction by the culvert. Moving across her view, Sir Marcus rides between the heaps and out onto the mill-dam. Under the lucam, the Johnos are loading their tumbrel with additional bags of flour:
“What's this?” exclaims Sir Marcus, somewhat disappointed that they seem to be anticipating his demands, “Ready to give vacant possession, are we?”
“Tis toime to tearke stock,” say Johno, tying off the tackle from which a large bag of flour is still dangling some fifteen feet above the tumbrel, “Tis long past harvest's end, and remainders must needs be sold.”
“Ha!” says Sir Marcus, wagging his riding whip, then muttering “Steady there!” to his mount as Little Johno leads the tumbrel past on his way to the heap of bags beyond the culvert. Then turning to Greg he says, “Serve the notice, dammit.”
“Ha yourself,” say Old Johno, putting his hands on his hips and raising a leg to the accompaniment of a finely fermented fart.
— • —
High in the crotch of the willow, Miss Roberts has been following the action. Currently she is watching as a suspicious Stan dismounts and turns to follow Little Johno and the tumbrel. Like Stan, she too has her doubts and is expecting that at any moment the Johnos will succeed in luring Sir Marcus and the handsome young Lieutenant under the suspended flour sack. There is only one thing to do, and she has the wherewithal to do it. She must drop the flour before the horsemen move forward.
Young Johno is now thumbing his nose, while Middl'n Johno caper's lewdly and Old Johno concentrates on the production of an encore. Sir Marcus tightens his reins, he is about to move forward. Miss Roberts lays her left forearm on a convenient branch, places the barrel on her arm and sets her sights on the pulley-block at the head of the tackle. Below her Little Johno has just noticed a chicken bone and an apple-core that weren't there earlier, unnoticed, he climbs the tree.
Stan, who has just discovered the Mark-stone back in its original place, but hidden under a heap of flour bags, turns to call Sir Marcus, but his voice is drowned by the crack of a pistol shot. Miss Roberts has missed the block but parted the tail-rope, letting the drop-rope whip through the block. Stan gasps as he sees it snag and jerk. The flour sack bursts and everything disappears in a choking cloud of Pratt's best graded white flour.
Back in the fork of the willow, Miss Roberts and Little Johno struggle for possession of the gun, spraying the remaining five shots wildly into the sky. She shrugs him off, but the recoil of the last wild shot throws her off into the river below. Young Johno, leaning over the parapet of the mill-dam to avoid the flour, sees her distress and, this time fully clothed leaps into the mill-race......
The rest of the story runs more or less as you'd expect. what little more there is we'll hear, no doubt, from the inveterate mardlers of Little Mardlingham.
— INDEX —
3.01.10 - Mardle at the Crossed Arms
;s work is done. If wigs had been worn they would have been floured. Argument has been joined and ropes parted. Lead has flown and Old Johno farted. This is the end of the Miller's Tale, all that is left is for the regulars at the Crossed Arms to pick over the remains:
“Warld a'har own,” say Jarge, “Thas ware she live.”
“Hews thet?” say Bea, “Miss Roberts?”
“Zac'ly,” say Jarge, “Hed fulla wopses nests.”
“Lotta buzz'n,” grin Jimma, “Bu'nOo hunna.”
“Wut Oi wuntta know,” say Jarge, “Iz hew it wuz she missed?”
“Nah,” say Stan, “Oi reckon she wing'd th'rite bud.”
“Bag a'flar?” say Bea, “Frum wut Oi hard, thet wud ha'flattn'd Sir Marcus.”
“Dew he take'ut hard?” say Jimma, “Ar'Lord an'Marsta?”
“Werra calm, tho he wuz white as a gOost,” say Stan.
“Th'flar, Oi spuz?” say Bea.
“Zactly,” say Stan, “So Oi gather'up hiz reins an'led him back ter th'stun, ‘Bless me britches,’ he say, then Oi tuk'im hum to Miss Rosamunda.”
“Oid'a loike ter see har fearce,” say Bea, “Bet she coddle'im suff'n orful.”
“Wut'appen ter thet young witch?” say Jarge, “Miss Roberts.”
“Young Johno hoik'd har owt,” say Stan, “An'now they've run orf to'Merikie, tergitha.”
Please comment if you need translations.
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